


Reprieve

by ospreyx



Series: rest and recuperation [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Character Study, Clovember 2020, Developing Relationship, Drabble Collection, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 14,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27326920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ospreyx/pseuds/ospreyx
Summary: Clover does not shake Qrow’s throne; he completely shatters it.He is the embodiment of everything gone right by Atlesian standards, and yet still, he is different. He is lethally charismatic. He is dangerously alluring. He is authentic in everything he does, never once hiding in a space where Qrow cannot reach.The most perilous thing of all is that he isinteresting.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Series: rest and recuperation [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1998874
Comments: 376
Kudos: 76





	1. sleeve(less)

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is a series of related drabbles for all 30 days of clovember. this takes place right after qrow arrives to atlas and ends directly after armageddon, in which clover learns what it means to love & live for something beyond atlas. 
> 
> just as a heads up - this fic will not cover ch12, but it will include the aftermath, and it will be warned appropriately in the author's notes. prompts will be in the chapter titles.

For a short while, there is silence. It is like that of a stilted breath, a predacious stillness, a house of cards just a whisper away from collapsing. Atlas is nothing like home, and even with the hospitality they are given and the protection they are granted, it is nothing close to the respite they need. There is no respite until there is stability, and there is no real stability when there is no guaranteed tomorrow.

But Qrow can let himself believe that there is respite to be had when he finally meets Clover.

The moment they met will always be remembered in technicolor detail, but it is the lull that follows that Qrow lingers on the most. He does not expect very much when they arrive, not when they are presented with nothing but impeccable marble and stainless tiles and rooms painfully barren. He does not expect anyone after James to stop him, and he _ especially  _ doesn’t expect the genuine apology that Clover gives him.

It stems beyond bland pleasantries and lame introductions. It goes further than a smile and the infuriatingly distracting lack of sleeves, because from the very start, Clover is considerate. He bears a title heavier than gravity and duties that stretch long into the night, and yet still, he has nothing to give but endless patience and a smile that burns brighter than the sun itself.

Needless to say, Clover does not shake Qrow’s throne; he completely shatters it.

He is the embodiment of everything gone right by Atlesian standards, and yet still, he is different. He is lethally charismatic. He is dangerously alluring. He is authentic in everything he does, always wearing his heart on his sleeve, never once hiding in a space where Qrow cannot reach.

The most perilous thing of all is that he is  _ interesting. _

What makes this so dangerous is that Qrow cannot help but be drawn to Clover. He cannot help the pull between them like that between the shattered moon and the rising tide. He cannot help the attraction, the allure, the unspoken thing that sparks and skitters like flint to steel every morning when their paths converge.

And judging by the fleeting glances and the smile that crooks just a bit higher each time, Clover cannot help it, either.


	2. leadership

It is frighteningly easy to fall into step with the routine they are given.

For the most part, it is because of a certain operative who has a way of getting under Qrow’s skin. There were many so-called leaders over the years that Qrow never felt compelled by, but from the very first time he set foot into a meeting led by Clover, he can understand why the title and the responsibility was granted to him. 

He speaks with a confidence like none other, his Scroll held ready in his hand, an array of pairings on display for the week. There are many things he notices, never once putting the same two huntsmen and huntresses together, not until he figures out which works best. He is diligent, but not strict; he is assertive, but not aggressive; for the most part, he is _kind_ , and like all things, he notices that Ruby and her team prefer to stick together.

So he does not separate them unless he has to. For that, Qrow is glad, because out of the two years they have had traveling together, not one moment have they spent it far from each other. There is a bond, that much Clover recognizes, and for the first time in perhaps decades, Qrow does not find it too jarring to behave.

Maybe that is what brings them together, at first, if not the fleeting glances and the off-hand comments. Maybe it is the compliance. Or maybe it was Qrow eying Clover’s coffee, both too exhausted to get one for himself and too sleepy to think about anything else.

Either way, Clover notices, and he starts to bring an extra cup of coffee with him every morning.

The familiarity builds faster than Qrow is prepared for. It is easy when Clover is so charismatic, though, prominent in all of his work but especially striking when it is just them. For the most part, he is professional, but there is something that flits just beneath the surface when there is nothing but an empty meeting room and a cup of coffee handed between them.

“Sugar?” Qrow asks as he always does.

Clover regards him with a whimsical little smile. It is always disarming, the light that dances briefly in his eyes, the slight lilt of his voice as he answers, "Enough to rot your teeth."


	3. colors

Early in the morning, when there is only the barest hint of light ribboning its horizon, the halls of Atlas Academy seem to be made out of glass.

It is always that way, and although Qrow does not like the echo of his footsteps or the unmoving void that lingers in every corner, he leaves his room regardless. Empty halls and frigid rooms are better than a bed too small and blankets too scratchy on his clammy skin. He has never liked Atlas, not with its weather and attitude and clear-cut perfection, but he can grow to appreciate one thing.

While Atlas is cold and gray, Clover is anything but.

He wears the uniform, dons the muted colors, sticks closely to what he was made to be, but there is nothing that stands out quite like his eyes. Qrow only notices it on one of the many mornings that he leaves his bed and finds Clover already sitting in the nearby common room.

Clover glances sharply up to him, and immediately, he smiles. There is a glasslike serenity to him, just as there is in everything else within Solitas’ borders, but it is always the smile that gives him away. It is not very different from the pleasant smile he usually wears, but what makes it stand out is the way it reaches his eyes.

And on the rare occasion when there is a proper sunrise in Atlas, nothing is quite as captivating as Clover’s eyes.

They are green, of all colors - a light green like that of an early springtime bloom and the hopeful promises within it. But when the sun shines on them, they ignite and glow an off-white like that of seafoam. It suits him, Qrow sometimes thinks when he is close enough to see them brighten; it suits him ridiculously well, and for a breathless moment, he can only stare.

He does not realize that he is staring until Clover laughs.

Qrow does not remember what it is they were just talking about, and briefly, he withers. Except it is never derision that he hears in Clover’s laughter; what he hears is something too nuanced to determine just yet, something too complicated to grasp when he is incapable of focusing on it.

What captivates him is the way Clover’s eyes glow with the promise that accompanies the sunrise. They ignite with something like hope, like renewal, this shine in them that is reminiscent of a new day, a new year, a new life. It fades only when Clover shifts out of the sunlight that bleeds in through the window to gesture vaguely over his shoulder.

“Maybe you should grab some coffee,” Clover teases, but it is softer than usual, laced lightly with something far too perilous to admit to. “There’s still some left on the counter.”

It takes another frantic few heartbeats before Qrow nods and makes a beeline towards the coffee pot.


	4. sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well. it's been . . . a night, as we all know. let's see if i can keep up with this challenge in the days that follow.

Clover is aware of what he is missing in a life dedicated to a cause.

None of them are kept in the dark, not when there are secrets lethal enough to send Remnant crumbling like the remains of a corroded cliffside. He knows what exists beyond Solitas’ borders, with all of the world’s marvels captured in photos and textbook descriptors. He knows, and yet still, he does not feel compelled by them.

What compels him is the duty he has sworn to, several years ago before he even knew of the final battle to come. It is Atlas that he has made his promise to, and he has never questioned it. There is no room for questions that do not matter; there is no time for hopes that will not come to life.

Though something starts to crack when Qrow comes along.

Clover cannot pinpoint it. He cannot figure out what it is, not for a long time, only that something shifts just out of place when Qrow begins to tell him a few stories. He speaks quietly that morning, distantly while the slight tremor in his body calms, but he comes back to himself once he starts to talk about the sea between Argus and Atlas.

Clover has seen it already - sunlight glittering against its surface, the endless expanse of a blue deeper than any gem. He has seen it captured in textbooks, brochures, paintings, and still, he is not enamored with the imagery like he is with the hint of reverence in Qrow’s voice. Something in Qrow always skitters back to life during these stories, and Clover cannot help but wonder what it is.

Eventually, Clover admits, “I’ve never actually seen it for myself.”

He does not immediately understand the odd look that Qrow pins him with. “Don’t tell me you’ve never left Atlas.”

There is enough incredulity in that for Clover to waver. "I've traveled around Solitas," he says, knowing that it is not a real answer, but it is all that he has to offer.

Qrow regards him for another long moment before he glances back out of the window. There are no curtains, no blinds, nothing but a smooth, untouched windowpane that glistens with the barest hints of sunlight. Atlas is rigid and pristine, filled with a glory like none other, but then again, Clover has never known another. 

Clover knows Atlas like he knows how to breathe, knows duty like he knows how to wield Kingfisher, and rarely does he ever wonder about more.

Despite the pearly stretch of the Academy and its surrounding atmosphere, he sees that Qrow does not marvel in it. He only frowns at its horizon, and for one calamitous moment, with his tattered cape and embroidered sleeves and gray-streaked hair, he looks like he does not belong. There is a place for Qrow somewhere, a place where he does not stand out, a place that is nothing like Atlas.

And briefly, helplessly, with a sound like breaking glass and a seismic shift within his core, Clover finds himself wondering about what that place might be like.


	5. masks

For the most part, Clover is professional.

He is meticulous with everything he does, never once faltering, not a single thing going by unnoticed. Oddly enough, that is one way in which they are the same; Qrow is observant, as well, and he recognizes the pleasant mask that Clover wears every day, weaved so seamlessly through every capillary within his flesh that it might as well be a second skin.

Except sometimes, it slips.

It quickly becomes world-shaking, these allowance that border offenses, the moments where Qrow wonders if there is something more than a skin-deep attraction. There is a different kind of vulnerability to the quiet words Clover directs at him. Soft, murmured idly, their knees brushing, the backs of Clover’s knuckles bumping minutely against his. Offense after offense, nudges that grow bolder, picture-perfect professionalism that melts further each time.

“Tell me if you ever run out of stories to tell,” Clover says at the end of another game he wins. It is not a gloat, though, because he is not cruel, only teasing in a way that he knows will rope Qrow into another round.

And although losing is not all that thrilling, that is not why Qrow plays anymore.

He plays because of the light in Clover’s eyes when they do. He plays for the skitter of something electric beneath his skin when Clover smiles, for the flare of something white-hot and thrilling when Clover’s voice crooks low into a murmur that only he can hear. 

Off-handedly, Qrow says, “With all your luck, I’m surprised you don’t gamble for more.”

It is always the same in the end, this needless transaction, this trade of a win for a story. It is easy to understand why, though; there is not a single thing in Clover’s life that he did not have to earn, and it must be ingrained in him, Qrow sometimes thinks, innate to him in the same way that breathing is.

Clover glances up at him from the cards that he shuffles, and only then does it register to Qrow just how quickly the space between them dwindled. Clover’s eyes linger just as they always do, trailing dangerously low, something unexpectedly heavy in them like pitch that runs sedimentary until it begins to scald. 

“There’s some things you can’t gamble for,” Clover says.

Qrow is not blind, not in the face of something so deliberate. He cannot help but stoke the flames, sends them flaring and catching when he asks, “Like what?”

It is there again, that slight shift in Clover’s expression that is too nuanced to decipher, the flicker above storm clouds and shift within deep waters. For a moment - just a moment, a fleeting moment as his eyes trail lower and the cosmos swells faster than ever before - Qrow sees what it is.

It is an allowance that he is not often granted. It is a mistake that he does not often make. He has never been one to want or to take, only to serve and to give. He has never been allowed something that stems as deep as his veins, and yet still, it is there.

It is sheer, unabashed _want_ , and he does not smother it in time.

It does not last long. The cracks quickly fill, and the thing that tore from the pressure knits back together, happening so quickly that it can be nothing but a practiced response. Clover hums with only a hint of mischief in his smile, “Win one game, and I’ll tell you.”

Briefly, Qrow wonders what it would take to get that mask to fall.


	6. work/play

There is a very distinct line between work and play that Clover has always known never to cross, but Qrow catches when it begins to muddle.

It is not a single moment that makes the realization hit, like a wire that snaps or ice that cracks; rather, it is the quiet moments in between supply runs and patrols, the frantic beat beat beat of a fragile weight in Qrow’s chest whenever Clover lingers longer than necessary. He is attentive, of course, never once faltering in the duties he must uphold, but that never does stop him from finding Qrow amidst everything.

The other operatives notice. The kids do, as well. It is subtle, but they do seem to notice, and Qrow half-expects this game they play to come to an end.

To his surprise, it does not. There are many things that Clover can hide if he chooses to, but this is never one of them.

So the game continues. The evenings spent in the observation deck overlooking the kids’ training sessions do not cease and the flirting during their missions does not falter. Eventually, Qrow learns that Clover can be just as playful when he wants to be, and that alone is strikingly heady.

It is exhilarating to taunt a man like Clover. It is a rush like none other, brushing close when the other operatives are not looking, watching the way a tendon in Clover’s neck twinges when he does. He is dignified, his expression blessedly neutral, but the flare of something dark and heavy in his eyes says it all.

Distantly, Qrow wonders when the tension will finally snap. The door to their transport slides open, and like always, Clover lingers behind the other operatives, his gaze shifting to watch as Qrow unsheathes Harbinger. He seems fascinated by it, this stark comparison between the two, the curve of something lethal to the fine-tipped edge of something elusive.

Once they are alone, Qrow glances out of the transport and into the splots of black that mar the tundra’s surface far below. Already, Clover knows what he is thinking, and he cannot help the grin that dawns on his face when he hears Clover say, “Sticking with the group would be nice.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“I’d rather not have to keep an eye on you,” Clover tells him, but it is lilted, teasing, one of many allowances that start to pile up between them.

“Maybe I like the attention.” Qrow glances back over, and he sees the look Clover pins him with - heavy, _perilous,_ a thrilling stillness to him like that of a stilted atmosphere just before lightning strikes. Before jumping out, he goads, “Eyes on me, lucky charm.”

And they are.

They are, and they _smoulder._


	7. uncertainty

For once, Clover does not know what to think.

It is late one morning when they are sent on a patrol on the wall bordering Mantle, and for the first time since they met, there is an odd tension that he does not know how to sever. Qrow is silent since leaving the General's office, but as he falls into step by Clover's side, his lips pressed to a thin line, he eventually says, "It shouldn't be like this."

He is not entirely sure what it is that Qrow refers to, but he can take a decent guess when Harbinger is unsheathed and perhaps their fourth pair of Sabyrs are shot down from their perch. Carefully, he responds, "It shouldn't."

He is aware of the state of Mantle’s security, and he is aware of the General’s insistence that supplies continue to be redirected. It is not his place to question it. So he does not, not until something in him splinters when Qrow asks, “You agreeing with me, or just keeping the peace?”

It is not about whether he agrees or not, Clover idly thinks, it has never been about that. But there is nothing perilous there that watches and listens to what he has to say - it is only Qrow, always Qrow, watching with an enigmatic expression, listening with a careful stillness as if he is waiting for something to fall apart.

It is not his place to agree or disagree, but as he considers Mantle and all of its pleas for something, _anything_ better, he says, “I don’t believe that anyone should be ignored like this.”

It almost feels juvenile to frown in the wake of something that is far beyond his control. It is pointless, needless, to mourn the hopes of a version of himself that has long since changed. Once upon a time, he did not know what lurked just around the corner, waiting for the right moment to pounce. He did not know that hope was a precarious thing to hold, but now he does.

It is not that he has learned not to be hopeful; he merely learned to be _realistic._

Qrow does not look pleased by the answer, and helplessly, Clover wonders what it is that he did not catch on to. He relents, though, and turns his attention beyond the wall, and Clover follows his line of sight. There is nothing really to focus on, not within endless land, an expanse of white far beyond his reach, far-off wonders that he knows but will never recognize in the same way that Qrow does.

“Brothers,” Qrow murmurs. He is deadpan, almost trembling, almost vulnerable in a way that Clover does not recognize. “There doesn’t need to be any casualties.”

 _Not like there was at Beacon_ , he might have said, but he does not need to. Casualties are a given in any cause - there is a greater good to be taken into consideration, and Clover knows. He _knows_.

He knows, but still, there is something that rattles, trembles, _breaks._ There is something that splinters with the thunderclap to the foundation he did not know was there, and for the first time since the embargo and the launch of the Communications project, he does not feel as certain as he should. 

Because with the way Qrow speaks as if the fate of Mantle is on a crumbling ledge, Clover realizes that there is something he is missing.


	8. optimism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are rough but at least this game of catch-up didn't last very long :)) next chapter will be up in a couple of hours
> 
> ♡ mildly inspired by [renabe's art](https://twitter.com/Renabe4Life/status/1325610587611656197) ♡

Clover is always awake early, it seems.

There is always the earthy scent of coffee fresh in the common room they frequent. Smaller than average, adjacent to their living quarters, far from any students’ reach. Qrow settles on the opposite end of the couch as he always does, his own coffee in hand, and revels in the lake-water silence. It is something of a respite from his kids’ spontaneity, if not because of the quietude, then because of the company it brings.

Clover’s only greeting that morning is a smile that bleeds nothing but warmth. He is always that way, warm when Atlas is not, smiling when others cannot; he is a breath of fresh air, both relieving and invigorating, never once faltering in his boundless optimism and encouragement.

It is that optimism that Qrow finds especially unfathomable. It is not jarring, at least, because although Clover is optimistic, he is also realistic. He knows just as well as Qrow does that there is something feral that lurks nearby, waiting for the right moment to pounce. But that does not stop him from offering the right words when they are needed, and Qrow wonders how he always finds them so easily.

He is perfect in every sense of the word - a perfect leader, perfect partner, perfect acquaintance, and yet that morning, he is not. It is only a subtle difference, with his collar unbuttoned and the cloth around his bicep laying flat on the rounded side table, but Qrow clings to it regardless. For once, he is not pristine in his uniform; for once, he does not uphold this impossible image between the two of them.

Clover’s pin lays on the table, as well, the faint glow of the sunrise bright against its glossy surface. There are no other good luck charms to be seen, either at Clover’s hip or in his pocket, and Qrow cannot help the way his eyes linger on it. It is a hint of individuality amidst a dull uniform and even duller atmosphere. It is a sign in and of itself, this little portion of luck and hope immortalized, this token representative of everything Clover has to offer.

It is also remarkably shiny.

Embarrassingly enough, Clover notices. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and when he picks up the pin, Qrow expects something close to derision for staring.

He does not expect Clover to lean over and pin it to his coat lapel.

His breath catches, stills just as the atmosphere does, refuses to keep up with the rush between his ribs. Clover is too close, too perfect, _ too much _ \- he does not pull away, his fingers lingering, the curve of his lips as they crook into a faint smirk more enticing than they have the right to be. Qrow’s heart jumps to his throat, pounding there, fluttering with the urge to close that small bit of distance. 

Clover flicks at the pin and says, “A little extra luck never hurts.”

All too suddenly, he pulls away, and Qrow would follow if he could. Would throw caution to the wind and tug him close, would shatter the glass and tear down these walls if it means he’d be whole. Qrow’s fingers ghost over the pin’s smooth surface, lingering there as if that is the only thing that makes it real. 

“Might just end up being another bad luck charm if it’s attached to me,” Qrow murmurs. 

Clover’s brows furrow, and for a moment, a frantic heartbeat within the eternity that swathes him, he looks as if there is something he wants to say. He looks as if there is something that threatens to burst out of him, as if there are words to weave, promises to thread, things to say that would break them both.

“It’s all about perspective,” he eventually responds. “Good luck, bad luck - either way, it depends on a little more than just our Semblances.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Clover’s gaze is sharp, calculating. It could flay him alive, Qrow thinks, it could leave him raw and vulnerable, but he does not shy away.

“I like to think we balance each other out,” Clover tells him. There is a unique kind of fragility that laces through his words, almost vulnerable enough to be something like a confession. Then, with a hint of mirth, he playfully adds, “It also happens to look better on you.”

Qrow huffs with what might be a laugh. He does not deflect the compliment, though, and he falls readily into the silence that follows.


	9. wink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for once, a well and true _drabble_

It is unexpectedly gratifying to get a reaction out of Qrow.

There is a playful side to Clover that he forgot was even there. Perhaps it is juvenile or careless, but it gets easy to play along and even easier to fall into the dynamic they have built. Although it is rare between all the flirting and the banter, he finds the one thing that will diffuse any situation, the one response that will devolve the tension that builds from the debriefings they usually attend together.

He winks, and every time, Qrow flushes and splutters out a response.


	10. recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: accidents & injury, but nothing is explicitly shown

If there is one thing Clover is exceptionally skilled at, it is maintaining his composure in even the most dire moments.

It is calm now, and they are far away from the tundra, but that does not wipe the memory. It is etched into Qrow’s mind in clear water detail, drawn with a clarity so distinct that he can almost still smell the iron and feel the scratch of gauze against his fingertips. Clover did not react, at least not vividly, not quickly, not much more than a grimace and a grunt that was drowned out by the frigid tundra winds.

Later, once they are on transport home and crack open the medical supplies, he only offers Qrow a smile. It is a wonder how he can look so bright when his Aura flickers and splinters like a jagged steak of lightning through tree bark. It is a wonder how he can offer even the mildest reassurance when his palm is stained crimson and the torn portion of his trousers sticks to his flesh.

The following morning is tense. Stilted. Qrow knows what lies beneath Clover’s uniform, recognizes how tentatively he sits against the cushions. All there is left to do is recover and move onwards, but Qrow cannot shake the ugly thing that coils in his core.

“It’s nothing Aura won’t fix,” Clover reassures him once he finally tucks his Scroll away.

But that’s not the point, Qrow would say if he could, that’s not the _point_. It is not about what will heal and what will not; it is not about how long or how little it will take to return to duty; it is about the patch of red that blossoms beneath his clothing and mottles burgundy with time, all because of a stray bullet that a bout of misfortune caused.

And yet still, Clover does not accuse him. His gaze is more gentle than it has the right to be, a flame in it like any other time, marred only by the slightest grimace when he accidentally applies pressure to his thigh. _Because things just happen_ , he said as he was patched back together, _because it could be worse._

“You should still rest,” Qrow says.

Clover does not smile, but he comes close. “And miss the sunrise? I'd never.”

“You call that a sunrise?” Qrow snorts. He glances out the window, its horizon dim and hazy like that of the mist that accompanies snowfall across a tranquil oceanside. “You haven’t seen a real sunrise.”

There is nothing like a sunrise in Patch. There is nothing like the vibrance, the highlights, the mellow echoes of a new day breathing life out into the sky. Qrow cannot help but wonder what Clover would look like outside of whites and grays; he cannot help but wonder what home would look like with another piece to fill in a portion long since broken.

It is then that it hits him. It is then that he understands what this is, this craving, this rush, this flourish into something he did not expect. And by the looks of it, Clover did not, either, a fragility to him like a silken petal discarded in the wind when he quietly admits, “I’d like to one day.”

It is dangerous, Qrow knows, it is dangerous to believe in a future that may not come to light, but he cannot help it - not when Clover looks at him with a yearning etched onto his face as if there is something before him that he wishes desperately to reach for.


	11. nature

Clover has never seen a bird so close to Atlas before.

He does not immediately recognize what it is, only that it is small and black and has its attention turned towards the street. He is on one of those rare patrols that veer down into Mantle, its streets frigid and quiet, not a soul within it besides him and the hollow thing that perches on a street lamp far above him.

For a small while, all he can do is stare. It is a wonder, this bit of life that is nonhuman, this portion to a jigsaw that he does not know how to piece back together. It remains unmoving, its attention focused solely on the entrance to a club nearby, and briefly, Clover considers that it might not actually be real.

Then, it shifts on its perch and turns its gaze to him.

It lets out a ragged caw, echoing like a gunshot through a silent night, and it is then that Clover recognizes it as a crow.

He laughs, fleeting, incredulous, because of course it is a crow. Of  _ course _ it is his partner’s namesake that he finds in the streets of Mantle.

Though it is a curious thing since nothing thrives here, Clover dimly realizes as he watches the crow begin to preen. Nothing thrives in a place that is cold and dull and filled with a tension fit to snap at the slightest movement, and yet here it is, standing out in a place where it obviously does not belong.

Inevitably, he thinks about Qrow.

It is there again, that sense of longing, the wonder of where it is that Qrow will return to. This is no place for a bird, where trees do now grow and snow does not thaw and other wildlife is nowhere to be found; this is no place for Qrow, either, who never stays in one place for very long and always finds his way back to his kids before they can stray too far.

He cannot help but wonder about a place where the leaves turn naturally and the flowers bloom unprompted. He wonders about greens melting into golds, a sky that ripples with velvets, what leaves might sound like when they skitter across a ground free of snow. 

He wonders what it is in Qrow’s eyes when he turns to him, what it is in Qrow’s voice when it is just the two of them, what promises it is that Qrow is making when he talks about Patch and the things he wishes Clover could see.

Maybe one day, Clover thinks with a longing that aches, maybe one day he will see it.

For now, he sees a crow preening its feathers, and that is more than he can ask for.


	12. orders/beliefs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how do these keep getting longer ?

Clover does not mean to eavesdrop.

It sort of just _happens_.

It starts with a sizable pack of Sabyrs breaking through Mantle’s defenses _again_. It starts with Qrow disappearing the moment they return, gone before Clover could even attempt to reassure him. It starts just before he enters James’ office, the hall silent and tranquil save for the voices from within.

It starts when he hears Qrow snarl from the other side of the door, _who do you think you’re saving when your backup plan is to abandon everyone else?_

The ground feels like it lurches, splinters, yawns wide enough to send him sinking; something vital is yanked out from beneath him, something that he has been clinging to for so long. It is then that he considers Mantle as a whole, the people rather than the numbers, the workers and the families and the needy that suffer first from every breach in security there is. 

It is then that he realizes what it is at stake, what exactly Qrow is fighting for, what will happen should it be left alone as it is.

The report will have to wait, if not just to allow Qrow to leave, then merely for Clover to process the decision that has yet to be made. The decision that he knows will have to be made, should the situation call for it - and it will, he helplessly thinks, it will when there is a final battle that will inevitably come. It is a choice that James is ready to make, but it leaves him weary and silent, tense and guarded, worn by the weight of the world above and by the lives of the city below. 

Slowly, Clover realizes that he will be ordered to stand by James when that time comes, and somehow, that is more harrowing than the decision itself.

Luck is not on his side. Or perhaps it is, because Qrow does not run into him as he whirls out of James’ office. Qrow halts, blinks, stares for a moment before he finally scowls and pushes past. 

Clover knows he should not follow. He knows he should not when the dust is still settling and there is still a report to be made. But knowing does not make this crossroads any easier. Knowing does not quell this urge, this tug, this pull at his core that he can only deny for so long.

After a few moments to consider, Clover gives in, getting halfway down the hall before he starts, “Qrow -”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“ _Qrow._ ” 

The plea is enough to give Qrow pause. The atmosphere is wire-tight and seething, breaking only once he finally relents and glances sharply over. “If you’re not going to convince that idiot that what he’s doing is wrong, I don’t want to hear it.”

“He’s trying his best -”

“I know he’s trying,” Qrow snaps, “but he’s trying the wrong thing and won’t fucking listen.” He takes a slow, steadying breath, then murmurs, “You agree with it, don’t you?”

The question is more calamitous than it has the right to be. Clover should not have an answer, or at least, not the one that Qrow needs - he should not bother, because it is not about what he agrees or disagrees with - but he has one anyways. He has an answer, despite knowing he should not; he has an answer, and for once, he aches terribly to say it.

 _No,_ is what Clover wishes he could say.

“Anything else would be insubordination,” is what he carefully answers with.

Qrow does not immediately respond. He sounds terribly close to resigned when he eventually points out, “That’s not what I asked.”

It is then that Clover realizes that there is something fragile that is nestled in his hands. There is something so close to tearing, held together by the barest threads, and all he knows is that he does not want it to fall. Loss is universal, and he instantly recognizes it when Qrow sighs and turns to leave.

That is enough for him to blurt out, “I don’t.”

It should be terrifying, this dangerous acknowledgement, this act of betrayal that is sure to bite him later, but it does not feel that way. It feels like a breath of fresh air, releasing this confession that has been pushing against the backs of his lips. It feels like the heady kiss of a newly lit fire, acting as the only bit of relief through a dark and frigid night. 

“I don’t,” Clover says again, firmer this time, though he is not sure who it is he is trying to reassure.

A faint smile plays at the corners of Qrow's lips. Softly, he says, "At least one of you has some common sense."

His eyes are alight with what might be wonder, and for a small while, for the short calm before an oncoming storm, Clover can breathe freely.


	13. serendipity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> »»——⍟——««  
> serendipity  
> finding something good or fortunate as a result of luck or chance; unexpected good fortune  
> »»——⍟——««

It does not take very long before something finally gives.

Clover sees the collision waiting to happen from a mile away, and he is not one to try to delay the inevitable. Tension can only pull itself so taut before it ultimately snaps; a flame can only be fueled for so long before it begins to run wild, and eventually, this game they play comes to an end.

It is late into the night, long after Atlas Academy’s halls have grown quiet and still. The game of poker they played with the other operatives was forgotten the moment Clover offered to walk Qrow back to his quarters. The banter is heady, the flirting insatiable, goading and teasing until the glass around them finally shatters.

Clover is not entirely sure which comment it was or who exactly is at fault. All he knows is that Qrow is not leaving just yet, not even as he punches in the code to his quarters and allows the door to yawn wide. There is something lethal in his eyes when he turns to Clover - a promise sharp enough to cut through flesh, an urgency strong enough to splinter through bone. 

Clover does not know what tugs at him, only that it is strong, stronger than he has ever felt before. “Maybe we should talk about this thing we’ve been avoiding,” he murmurs, however needlessly, watching with a flare in his gut as Qrow reaches up to play with his lapels.

“Maybe,” Qrow agrees. His fingers are an anchor, a tether, perhaps the only thing keeping him grounded when he feels like he is soaring. “What do you want, shamrock?” 

It is an interesting question, especially when they are a heartbeat away from drowning, a breath away from burning to ash. He knows what he wants, but he also knows that this is a treacherous path to tread. He knows that he stands on ice thin enough to splinter at the barest movement, because this is a gamble that not even his Semblance will be able to soften the blow of.

But if there is one thing Clover is good at, it is taking the grandest risks and somehow making it out unscathed.

“You,” he answers, “I want you.”

It is selfish, he knows, it is the most selfish thing he could possibly ask for, but the longer this drags on, the longer he _aches,_ the less he cares. Qrow settles closer, his eyes a stunning pink in the moonlight, his voice crooking low and simmering in Clover’s blood like a drug as he says, “You better not walk out on me after tonight.”

“I don’t plan on leaving,” Clover says, quiet and cautious, but firm nonetheless. “Whatever happens - whatever comes afterwards - I don’t care. I want all of you.” 

Qrow pulls back just a bit, searching, pleading, _hoping._ "I can't lose anyone else. Not like this."

There is the urge to soothe, to comfort, to make any and every promise under the sun, but he does not know if that is the right choice. It is too juvenile to speak of a future that may not come to light and too hopeful to make a promise that he might not be able to keep. But Qrow is there, always there, always by his side, here in front of him with starlight glimmering in his eyes, and Clover has never wanted anything more.

“You won’t.”

He does not get a warning before Qrow’s fingers weave through his hair and tug him close. A soft sound is muffled where their lips slot together, something needy, something desperate - he would not trade it for anything else, though, not when Qrow moulds so perfectly against him, not when time slows to a crawl and the threat of tomorrow does not whisper so loudly.

Fingers trail over skin, feather-light and tentative until they finally let go; something sweet thrums in Clover’s veins, echoing like the broken surface of a lake, pulsing, pounding, soaring - it is everything he thought impossible, everything he did not dare to look for, everything he could have ever wanted.

In the end, he is not sure what to call it. 

Fate is a dangerously hopeful thing to believe in, so he will not call it fate. It is not an inevitability, either, because that implies that this is absolute.

It is something that happened by chance, he realizes afterwards as Qrow traces patterns against his skin. It is something that occurred at that crossroads, at the single coalescence where their individual choices led them to. It is something that Clover was not looking for, but now that he has found it, he refuses to let it go.

He does not know what to call this. He has a sneaking suspicion, but it is too perilous, too terrifying, too new to address just yet. Not tonight, not at the moment, not when he does not know which sunrise will be his last.

All Clover knows is that Qrow is here now, and no amount of fortune in the world could ever recreate this.


	14. self care

Qrow eventually realizes why it is that Clover wakes so early.

Or, on the occasion, why he just does not fall asleep.

That is one part of him that he is lethally good at masking. There is no questioning a practiced smile that is as perfect and pristine as anything else around them. There is no room for questions when the vibrance and the confidence never changes, but soon enough, Qrow can start to see through the cracks where each end meets.

It begins when the overnight stays do. It is always subtle, the yawns that Clover hides, the coffee pot already half empty, the Scroll that he stares wearily at. But in a space where it is just the two of them, in the quietude of an early morning where Clover cannot hide the vibrations of his alarm or the thrum of brewing coffee, there is no real way to hide it.

Qrow wonders if there is ever a time where Clover actually _rests_ \- or, further yet, if he even knows how to. If he knows what it means to spend time off duty without a report in his hand, or if he knows that he is allowed to have respite when there are no pressing matters to attend to.

Probably not, Qrow idly thinks as he cracks one eye open to see Clover sitting back against the headboard with his Scroll in one hand and a mug in the other. He does not know if it is the lighting or the night they had or the still-cooling coffee that he has yet to drink, but the bags under Clover’s eyes are all the more pronounced, and that is enough for Qrow to nudge at his side.

“Cloves,” he grumbles. “It’s _Sunday._ ”

The only response he gets is a distracted hum.

Not for the first time, Qrow huffs and considers potential consequences. He is not usually one to resort to the nuclear option, but, well. He supposes there really is no other choice. 

He shrugs the blanket off, then reaches out to pluck the scroll from Clover’s hand. The reaction is not immediate, not until he swings his leg over to straddle Clover’s lap; one hand clamps over Qrow’s thigh, the other nearly spilling the coffee, and Qrow cannot help but simper at the seafoam green eyes that stare incredulously at him.

“It’s Sunday,” Qrow says again. He tosses the Scroll aside onto the pillow beside him, then adds, “And you woke me up. I deserve compensation.”

Something dangerously close to want burns in Clover’s eyes, straining like twined wire waiting to snap before he seems to catch himself. He blinks, then wavers, trailing his hand higher to tap dismissively against Qrow’s hip.

“There’s a lot I need to get done,” Clover quietly reminds him.

Qrow only rolls his eyes. “There’s always tomorrow, boy scout.”

Whatever it is that Clover tries to respond with dies on the tip of his tongue when Qrow reaches up to run the pad of his thumb against the bruises beneath his eyes. They tell a story of their own, even if Clover will not acknowledge them; they whisper the secrets of late nights and early mornings and an exhaustion that not even caffeine will quell, even if Clover will always refuse to admit to them.

He sets his jaw, and for a moment, Qrow wonders if he will push him away. Then he sighs, the tension releasing rather than breaking, and turns his head to nuzzle against the palm of one hand. 

Faintly, the brush of his lips light and fleeting against Qrow’s skin, he asks, “And if there isn’t?”

Qrow recognizes this vulnerability, this shudder of something delicate, this exquisite thing that is whisper-light and fragile in a way that he does not know if he can salvage. But it is not about salvaging, only about learning and adapting, and that much Qrow can see through moments like these.

It is not often that Clover eases himself out of that image of what he is meant to be. It is not often that he is not the pillar of support he is required to be or the impeccable soldier he is made to be, because nothing has given him that kind of allowance before now.

So Qrow quietly answers, “Then there also isn’t any paperwork due.”

Clover laughs - soft, fleeting, the first resignation out of many to come. For now, he does not reach for his Scroll, and he nuzzles further as he blissfully sighs, “Right.”


	15. change

In many ways, Atlas is unchanging, but Clover is not.

If there is one thing he is good at, one thing he excels at because it translates well beyond battle and strategy, it is learning. Learning, then adapting, because although there is no breaking out of the rigidity of the Atlesian military, there is always something that is worth changing. 

On one hand, it is because of Qrow, who gently nudges the word  _ selfish _ out of his mind. 

It is because he learns not to fear the wants that he will inevitably have, and instead begins to indulge more often than he usually would. Because these are luxuries, not allowances - because these are pleasures, not offenses, and he learns what it means to focus on tonight before he worries about tomorrow.

On the other hand, it is because of the ever-growing tension that simmers in Mantle.

It is because he does not immediately shy away from the idea of bringing Robyn and her help into consideration. There are secrets he will not betray, a promise to his General that he will never dare to break, but at the very least, he does not shut down her questions as strongly as before. There is no ignoring questions that he asks himself, and vaguely, Qrow can see the ambivalence through the pleasant mask he wears. 

It is not compliance, and it is not as dire as defection, but still, it is change.

It is change, and with change comes the whispers of what Qrow thinks might be hope.


	16. team

Working with a partner is different than working with the other operatives.

Perhaps for the first time in years, Clover does not have to lead. For the first time in what might be decades, he does not have to make those calls or take those chances. At first, he does not know what to call it. It is not jarring or harrowing, because a tension that he did not realize was there is released, and he recognizes that it is _liberating._

They work well together, now more than ever; they work well, the two of them, a team of their own that Clover did not expect. Once the quaking and the aching and the obvious wanting ceases, Qrow is indomitable, and Clover does not have to worry about what lurks over his shoulder when Qrow is there to fill in the gaps.

It stems deeper than Semblances or weapons, the banter or the silence, the flow of battle or the lull that follows. Clover knows what this is despite refusing to name it. He knows what it is that tethers them together, what keeps this balance from tipping, what separates his dynamic with Qrow from the dynamic he holds with the other operatives.

For the moment, they are comfortable. For the moment, while they are wreathed in ashes that quickly dissipate and Clover’s eyes are inevitably drawn back to his partner, the silence is enough. Not refusal, not denial, but silence nonetheless, and it will have to be enough.

Teams are not permanent, that much Clover has always known. Whether in the Academy or under James’ direct supervision, they are not _disposable_ , but temporary nonetheless. They are a jigsaw with pieces that may be replaced if need be, and he knows better than to think anything else.

But that starts to change once he sees how Qrow and his kids are always drawn back to each other at the end of every day.

Their paths diverge more often than not, but nevertheless, they meet at the same end. Clover grows to admire the kids and their spontaneity. He can come to appreciate the variety they bring, because while none of them are the same, they still work well together, and that is what matters.

It is not just the kids, either; in many ways, Qrow is his polar opposite, but that is not a hindrance. 

In tastes and in habits, in upbringing and long-held loyalties, in the very essence of who they are, they are the opposite, and perhaps that is what draws them together. Maybe that is what it is that erases the sense of time, as well - the sun rises and sets, stars shimmer and dim, light simmers and brightens and quickly bleeds into the next day, and for once, Clover does not worry.

For once, he has a partner who matches him alongside a team that trusts him, and he does not entirely dread what they might face next.


	17. second chances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just _had_ to follow up the hope with some angst
> 
> cw: non-explicit accidents & injuries and the hospital visit that follows

One thing Clover is exceptionally good at is taking chances.

With a Semblance like his tailored as an indefinite safety net, it is no secret why he is something of a gambler on these missions. It is a guarantee, a reassurance, this everlasting fortune that has prevailed more often than not; it is a widely accepted belief that Clover will make it out unscathed, and there is enough confidence from both him and his team to reinforce that.

Or at least, Qrow lets himself believe just as much up until he is proven wrong.

Until there is red that cakes the linings of his nails and stains the silver embroidery of the vest he wears from where he carried Clover. Until there are mounds of discarded gauze and bandages wrapped too tightly around wounds that continue to weep. Until he cannot see past the mottled red within white, sinking heavy through each thread, growing in size before Clover is finally whisked away.

Qrow is not allowed to see him just yet. Not until several hours later, when he is awake and already insisting on discharge papers.

Needless to say, Qrow is _livid._

Clover does not seem to understand why it is that Qrow is there. Whether it is because of some narcotic-induced confusion or because he genuinely did not expect anyone to visit him, Qrow does not know. He does not _want_ to know. But there is no denying the behavior or where it stems from, not when the other operatives merely turned a blind eye with idle reassurances that it is _fine._

It is treated as a common occurrence, even though it should not be. It is treated as if these injuries carry no potential, as if the hospital visit is not dire because of the standard belief that he will be fine - that he will be _alive_ and ready to serve once the worst of it is over. Because he is lucky, even though luck cannot soften the blow of his behavior; because he is lucky, even though no amount of luck can bring him back from something fatal.

“But I’m okay,” Clover says, again and again, still hopelessly blind to the hurt, the incredulity, the _anger._ His voice is soft, not weak but dangerously close, not like it was when his flesh first tore and his Aura shattered alongside it. “It’s nothing my Aura can’t fix once it’s -”

“That’s not the point,” Qrow snaps. “You got hurt. You got _hurt,_ Cloves, don’t you understand?” He does not know why he asks, because the lack of understanding is painfully obvious; there is already an excuse on Clover's tongue, Qrow knows, and he sets his jaw. Slowly, carefully, despite the way his heart shudders like glass about to break, he says, “I can’t be partnered with you if that’s how you’re going to act.”

Clover blinks. Lets out a helpless noise. He shifts, halts, grimaces and presses a hand to the bandages that are holding him together. “Wait. Wait, Qrow -”

“Don’t," Qrow hisses. "Don't bother. You’re _lucky,_ not invincible. You’re so fucking lucky that you got away with what you did, and I’m not going to stick around to watch you keep doing it.”

 _Until you can’t_ , he almost says, but the words sting like hellfire where he swallows around them. If this is common, then he will not have anything to do with it. If this is something he must expect, something he must desensitize himself to, something he will grow to accept just as readily as the other operatives do, then he refuses to have anything to do with it.

He does not say anything before he turns to leave because it is easier not to. It is easier to walk away from dim monitors and fluorescent lights and tubes that bulge beneath mottled skin, because that is a loss he can endure. That is a loss he will go through if it means that the last time he sees Clover is while he still breathes.

“Qrow,” Clover croaks out. Pauses, takes a careful breath that rattles against his splintered rib cage, and manages, “Please.”

Qrow wishes that he did not turn. He wishes he did not stop to face Clover again, but he does, and something in him aches terribly at the sight. It hurts to see him, to watch how he struggles to find the words, to see how close he is to falling apart.

“I understand,” Clover says. Quiet, so quiet, hardly more than a whisper, and Qrow wishes he did not hear the truth in it. “This isn’t - I’m not usually -” He settles back against his pillow with a broken sound. He tries again, weaker this time, “I didn’t think about it. I - I never have. But I understand. I'll do better.”

The air is glasslike, fragile, too thin to breathe through, as close to breaking as Clover seems to be. But Qrow does not leave, even if he knows he should; he does not, because he also knows that Clover is telling him the truth, that the promise he makes is not cold and hollow, and that is all he can ask for.


	18. gloves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: implied sexual content

Clover notices many things. Even the smallest details are not overlooked; whether in battle or in meetings, in the public eye or behind closed doors, there is not a single thing that he does not notice. 

So it is both a blessing and a curse when he notices just how fond Qrow is of his gloves.

Some days are long, but that is to be expected. Supply runs and meetings, reports to finish and Grimm to quell, a patrol that does not end until late into the evening - the moments in between are short, fleeting, but Qrow will take it regardless. There are blessings that he will not overlook, even if there is no time to relish them.

Even if there is no time to enjoy the smooth glide of leather against his skin.

He does not keep track of the time, not when Clover is there to keep track for him. Fifteen minutes, he had said; fifteen minutes before they must part ways, but with Clover’s lips slotted messily against his and the whisper of leather soft and cool against heated skin, time burns faster than leaves caught in wildfire.

Clover never removes his gloves. Not after the first few times, not once he realizes just what it is that makes Qrow’s blood simmer and scald. The touches are deliberately languid, because he knows they are running out of time, because he knows just how close Qrow is to falling apart.

It is a torturous sort of bliss that leaves Qrow quaking, gasping. He wonders when the timer will ring, half-coherent and frantic, wishing desperately that Clover will allow him to fall off that edge before fifteen minutes come to an end.


	19. laughter/tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> laughter/ ~~tears~~

It does not take very long before Qrow realizes how much the kids like Clover.

Somehow, he keeps up with them and their antics. He steps in on the mornings where Qrow feels like he has been dragged to the far ends of Remnant and back. He picks up the pieces when Qrow cannot, and eventually, it becomes easier to leave the kids unattended.

After two years of travel and hardship, two years of holding them together and knitting each wound with his own steady hands, Qrow may finally rest. It is not sudden, and it is not as simple as letting go, but he knows that Clover is there, and that is all he needs.

It is obvious that Clover cares for them, as well. It stems beyond team compatibility and mission successes; it branches further than surface-level pleasantries and picture-perfect smiles. Despite the tension that simmers and the ugly thing that waits just around the corner, there are moments where Ruby and the others laugh like they used to, and it is partially thanks to Clover.

He does not bring them together, but he does flow smoothly along with their meddling. He is not the one who resolves every problem without fail, but he does keep up with their banter and their spontaneity. He is a simultaneous pillar of support and soft place to fall, and very soon, the kids grow to adore him, as well.

He also entertains their more harmless antics, but that is no one’s business but his own.

Qrow realizes it on one of his rare days off when he nearly bumps into the girls on their way out of the library. They stifle their laughter on the way, with Ruby snorting out a hastened little apology, and already, Qrow knows that they are up to something deviously grand.

What he does not expect is to run into Clover directly afterwards.

He looks light, airy. It is subtle, with the barest crinkle at the corner of his eye and the faint pull of a smile at his lips - to anyone, it is imperceptible, but to Qrow, it is strikingly obvious.

As damage control, Qrow thinks to ask, “Any idea what that was about?”

Perhaps if they were alone, Clover would laugh. If there were no appearances to uphold or harmless antics to hide, he would laugh that stunning laugh of his, but for now, he only smiles. For now, he indulges the girls with a light dancing in his eyes, and fleetingly, impulsively, Qrow wishes to reach out and tug him close.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Clover dutifully answers.


	20. past

Something looms just overhead, something that Qrow cannot quite pinpoint but can still recognize. The passage of time is foreboding; the impassivity of the short days and even shorter nights following the election are more harrowing than ever before.

There is silence for now. It is not peace, and it is not respite, but it is silence nevertheless. There is something approaching quickly, that much they both recognize. There is something that festers like a wound, a poison, an ache left ignored, and all they can do is wait.

It does not feel very foreboding when it is Clover by his side, though. Even with the outcome of the election and the dinner soon to come, he has not yet cracked, and that much Qrow is thankful for. The common room is quiet again, shortly after the sun sets and the kids head to their rooms, but Clover has not left him, either.

It is not entirely clear what he looks for - reassurance, perhaps, or simply some company. Qrow does not know, but he knows that Clover is just as weary as he is, if the half-minded touches against his knee is anything to go by. His fingers are slow, methodical, a pattern Qrow does not recognize, and Clover stares unseeing at his Scroll.

A report, maybe. Details that will not filter. That much Qrow guesses, because it does not take very much to catch Clover’s attention; already, Clover is tucking the Scroll away when he asks, “You ever wonder about where you would’ve been if you didn’t make the decisions you did?”

Curiously enough, Clover does not answer. He does not often talk about the path that led him here or the few stepping stones before that, but it does not take a genius to understand that it was a mechanical process. Something automatic, something that was a mere given, when there is nothing to live up to but military finesse and picture-perfect appearances.

But it is different seeing that from Clover. The breath he takes, the light squeeze against Qrow’s knee, contemplating endlessly before he finally answers, “I don’t know. It wasn’t really my own decision.” Before Qrow can say anything, he adds, “I mean, yes, I’m here because I want to be, but I guess I’m lucky that I do, because the decision wasn’t mine. I have a name to live up to. A kingdom to serve. I just happen to like it.”

It is a wonder what he means by that - he is different, so different, different and jarring and everything Qrow wants in spite of himself. He is not cold, not hollow, not like the lifeless soldiers James has lingering at ready. He is not impeccable, not really, not when he lets himself want when he has never known what it meant to want more.

His uniform suits him in most ways, but in others, it does not. Three muted colors, white as pristine as the tundra, red like dried blood within the threads of a bandage; the only bit of individuality there is are the lack of sleeves and good luck charms, and even then, that sticks true to his name alone. True to his Semblance, true to the only thing he is in everyone else’s eyes. 

“Is this really what you wanted?”

At least this time, Clover does not waver. “More than anything,” he says, almost wistful. It could have been reminiscence if the past he looks upon was not so tragically different from the way things are now. “I wanted to be part of a cause. I wanted to do _something_. My part probably won’t mean too much in the long run, but what matters is that I tried. That’s all anyone can do.”

Qrow rests his hand over Clover’s, and belatedly, Clover turns his hand to weave their fingers together. It is reassurance, but he is not sure for who. All they can do is hit the ground running, and something tells Qrow that he will not have to wait long for it.


	21. support

Something is about to break.

Something rattles on the verge of falling apart, and Clover cannot pinpoint what it is. Nothing is the same, nothing is stable, nothing but the thrum of the engine as it sets off back to the city above. They won this battle, and yet something is off, something he cannot quite pinpoint.

It is obvious that the real battle is yet to come, but it is there. Looming, waiting, for what, Clover does not know. He does not want to know. Qrow looks as if he aches to reach out, and Clover wishes that he would.

He wishes for many things. Wishes it did not feel so precarious, wishes the tendrils of dread did not coil and writhe in his gut, wishes that there was more time. He does not know where he will have to go after this. He does not know what will come next.

“I’ll support you,” Clover quietly says, because that is the only thing he knows, the only truth there is. Qrow glances up at him, some odd mixture of hurt and wonder in his eyes. “Whatever happens - I’ll support you.”

Beside him, Tyrian shifts. Outside of their window, there is an army that they were not prepared for, a storm they have no time to brace themselves for. In front of him, Qrow tries again and again to reach his kids, but they do not answer, and he is so close to tearing at the seams.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Qrow rasps out.

He will try, at least. He will try until he cannot. He will try, because that is all he can do. All anyone can do.

In his pocket, his Scroll comes to life with a notification. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> narrator voice: everything was not fine


	22. blessed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: aftermath of ch 12, because imo tyrian's still a bastard, with or without bullshit writing involved. viewer discretion is advised.

_Whatever happens._

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Qrow does not remember much of the fallout. Partially because he did not sleep through most of it, but mostly because it is all stained red. Red in the beds of his nails, seeped into his shirt, against the glossy finish of the pin in his hand. That is the one thing they do not take from him. That is the one thing he cannot afford to lose.

He wishes he could, though. Wishes he could lose it all, wishes he was not stained red, wishes there was not this vein-deep love and this soul-deep hope, but it is there. He cannot forget Clover even if he wishes he could.

He cannot fall out of love even if he wishes to, either.

That is what this is, he helplessly thinks as he delays his departure in wait for news, for hope, for _anything_. He does not stay very long each passing day, not when his Semblance is still strong and the monitors are prone to changing at any moment. He comes and he goes, but the sight does not get any easier.

Clover is nothing like he was before. He lays still, very still, tubes bulging under skin and monitors glowing blue against his pallid flesh. Bags filled red, others filled with a fluid he cannot name, entry points mottled purple where they bulge and swell.

If it was not for the slow, shallow rise and fall of his reconstructed chest, Qrow would assume he was still dead.

He will get better, that much Qrow knows. He will regain color and breathe anew and learn how to sleep with the rattle of Dust beneath his sternum. He is a fast learner, and he adapts better than anyone Qrow has ever met, but he wishes that it did not have to come to that.

The man responsible is dead, but Qrow does not feel any reassurance. The man he loves is right in front of him, but Qrow does not feel any less ragged. The weapon in question is nowhere near him, but Qrow still shivers at the thought of its intricacies stained crimson.

No one says a word to Qrow. No one knows how to. Even so, he does not want to hear it. He does not want condolences or idle talk to fill the silence. He does not want to think about the fight that started it, the one he did not expect to lose, the glow of putrid violet that drained Clover’s Aura too quickly, but he does. He does, and he aches, and the pin digs into his palm until it is bruised, as well.

Qrow does not want anything but Clover, but he is not allowed in just yet. All he can do is watch through the glass with each fleeting visit and wait for the time to come. All he can do is think of the days before and dread the days that will follow, because there is no comfort to be had anymore when both an infallible city and an indomitable man were shattered in one night.

Throughout each visit, he hears only one thing, and he wishes he did not.

No one says that Clover is lucky, because luck did not save him.

They say he is blessed, because it was magic and an added touch of Atlesian technology that brought him back.


	23. worn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4th update today, in case anyone missed anything :')))
> 
> cw: some fleeting ch 12 mentions

Clover is tired.

He cannot quite hold himself together, not like Atlesian metalloids and a surge of magic can. He cannot breathe without the thrum of Dust or the thud of a heart beating too hard and too fast against his frigid sternum. He is worn ragged after decades of service, years of secrets, months of uncertainty.

But there is still one thing he is sure of.

Qrow asks him a question. He does not hear it over the pulse in his ears and the rattle in his remaining lung, but he does not need to. He knows what it is that Qrow asks when it’s uttered on a stilted breath, a ledge that crumbles, a part of him that cannot hold on for much longer.

He is quaking, almost hard enough to break himself apart, and Clover pulls him close. He is a breath away from saying goodbye, but it is stuck in his throat, caught between his ribs where it aches and pounds. Qrow’s fingers tremble where they cling to his shirt, and his lips brush against his pulse, words he cannot say, words that feel like  _ come with me. _

“I’ll go,” Clover says. Qrow makes a wounded sound against his skin. “Wherever you go - whatever’s left - I want to see it.”’

Qrow pulls away. Never before has he looked so raw, so ragged; never before has the end of a nightmare looked so catastrophic or the lull after a storm looked so broken. He looks from one eye to the other, pleading, begging, red as deep as the wound that he still remembers.

“That’s a big promise you’re making,” Qrow breathes.

There is a duty to uphold, Clover knows. There is a city to rebuild and a hellscape that needs healing. There is a promise to keep, vigils he has stood, a tether fortified by words and blood alike.

But those died with him, and they were not revived alongside him.

Qrow is here, splintered but not shattered, leaving but not gone, and that is what matters the most.

“I intend on keeping it.”


	24. journey

Never before has Clover seen so many colors.

Echoes of velvets that ripple like river water, over the horizon and into the land before it melts into a navy-hued twilight; shuddering whispers of hazel several hours later that glow just shy of gold against the early morning dew; several shades of green that stand out before anything else, sun-kissed and bold, shielding him from the heat that he was not at all prepared for.

On one hand, it is exhilarating.

On the other, it is _terrifying_.

Nothing could have prepared him for the colors, the smells, the sounds and the sights and the heat. Nothing is a comfort so far from what he has only ever known as home.

But Qrow is there - Qrow and his kids, comforts of their own, the only familiarity there is when everything else is not. There are highs and lows, sometimes too much and other times not enough, and the one constant that remains is Qrow.

Late nights together, just as there always was. Some semblance of a schedule when they take turns on watch and patrolling the areas they camp out in. Always, they return to each other. Always, there is respite. Always, there is pain, echo memories and fleeting sensations and nights where one or the other is nudged awake before they accidentally wake up the kids.

But no matter what there is, what aches there are to soothe or bandages there are to replace, Qrow is still there, and that is enough for Clover to endure the journey to a new home.


	25. home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another double update, and now we're finally caught up !!

Patch is everything Qrow said it would be.

Rippling leaves as the breeze passes, cascading from above and onto the cobblestone walkway that greeted them first. A sun that beats like a drum, suffocating, overbearing, but manageable beneath spotty canopies. Again, perhaps for the hundredth time that week, Clover wonders if he truly belongs.

He wonders that often as time drags slowly onwards. He does not know where he belongs anymore. Certainly not in Atlas, where there is no duty that calls to him and no tethers to a city placed in capable hands beyond his own. Atlas is all he had, all he knew, and for a while, he wonders if that was what home truly meant - the only place he could possibly return to.

But soon, he learns that home is a little deeper than that.

Home is what makes his heart sing and his wounds begin to mend. Home is what calls to him every evening when the sun begins to set and the surrounding forest comes to life. Home is what waits for him every night, sometimes to quiet and settle, always to curl up against him and listen to his heartbeat. 

He does not miss what he left behind. Misses the familiarity and the routine, but nothing more. He does not miss the vigil that ensnared him, the sacrifices he made, the servitude that grew like a feral thing that only ever demanded more. He has done enough, has done everything he could, but it was for a cause, not for his home.

Atlas is not home.

Patch is not home, either, but Qrow certainly is.

For once, he begins to understand what that means; Qrow is what makes this place home, and that is all Clover needs.


	26. holiday

If it was not for Taiyang’s insistence on a holiday get-together, Qrow would have forgotten.

It has been difficult. There is still healing to be done that has yet to start. There are wounds to be tended to that have yet to begin mending. There is forgiveness to be had, apologies to be said, but neither of them are quite ready for that step when the memories are still fresh.

And for the first time since arriving at Patch, Qrow can let go of the breath he has been holding.

The dust has had time to settle, and the foundation has had time to set, and Clover has had time to adjust. He is not the same as he once was; it is a subtle difference, but a difference nonetheless, because if there is one thing that reveals everything he tries to hide, it is his smile.

Now, Clover smiles merely as a reassurance. He smiles as an excuse. He smiles because Qrow is there and because he wakes to see every day as they come and go, but it is not the same as it once was. Sometimes, there is a spark in his eye, the embers of something that still needs time to catch and ignite, late into the night when Qrow returns from an opened window and settles by his side once again.

It is also here now, hours after they arrive at Taiyang's home and are greeted by the girls once again.

For once, when Clover speaks, he does not sound as if he is bearing a weight only he can see. He and Taiyang get along well, Qrow notes with a hint of relief; they coalesce like seafoam against sand, like the ocean and the sky, warm and everlasting. 

There is still a long way to go. There is still a winding road ahead that neither of them can see the end of. But Clover is smiling so brightly, and he picks up the pieces as the days go on, and when he turns to Qrow, he looks like he once did.

For once, he looks like he can be happy.

For once, he looks like he belongs.


	27. cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: ch 12 references

Harbinger is cold.

So is the pin.

It is about learning, Clover tells himself. Relearning. It is about healing, as red comes away and leaves glossy steel in its wake. It is about forgiving, as well, as Qrow’s hand closes over his and Harbinger is re-wrapped. It is about moving on, as the ache in his chest pulses, but not as strongly as it did the night before, or the night before that.

Qrow’s lips are against his neck, brushing, mapping. The stretch of skin there is soft, slightly bruised from that morning, blossoms of red and purple that lay just over his pulse. Qrow’s hands are not in his, but instead wrap around his wrists, thumbs pressed to the center. His chest against Clover’s, a quickened rise and fall, a healthy heart pounding frantically just underneath.

Fleetingly, Clover wonders if he can feel it, as well. He wonders often. Aches often. Quakes and sobs and hides away so often, and every time, Qrow finds him. 

Every time, Qrow grounds him.

“I’m sorry,” Clover rasps.

It is for both of them. For Qrow, who could not prevent it; for himself, because he did not expect it. 

Qrow turns his head and nuzzles just under his jaw. He takes a slow breath, holds it until he cannot, clings to it until it hurts. Clover shifts, grabs one of his hands, and brings it up between them until it rests against his sternum. The metalloid is not cold, and Qrow’s fingers are gentle, and he does not flinch; he is still warm, and his lung still expands, and his heart slows but does not cease, and he does not begin to quake anew.

His heart still beats, strong and whole and _there_ , and finally, Qrow answers.

“I am, too.”


	28. wish

Watching the sunset becomes something of a pastime for Clover in the late springtime.

The sky above Patch is clear and weeps velvet, wave by steady wave before it delves into twilight. The stars will come soon after, one after the other, echoes of the shattered moon that shimmer and shine. It is not bright and crystalline yet, with the remnants of sunlight still hazy over the horizon, but soon, it will be.

That is when Qrow settles by his side on the blankets he has set out against the grass and yawns, “Make a wish.”

Clover glances down at him. The late sunset is still in his eyes, accentuating their smouldering red, an ignition like that of pulsing embers left to cool. He wears a soft smile that grows just a bit wider, as if he knows how juvenile the prompt is.

“Hm?”

“You’re supposed to make a wish when you see the first star,” Qrow tells him, curling onto his side to rest his head in his lap.

He looks up to the sky again, to the whisper-light promises within it, peeking out slowly from the blue-tinged twilight that emerges rapidly. They are faint, but still, they shine, soon to shimmer, soon to bejewel the night sky before it fades into another blissful tomorrow. It is a sight like none other, still novel, still fresh; it is a different kind of calm, now dark, now quiet.

It only occurs to him after that he did not keep track. Idly, he hums, “What if I saw more than one?”

A long pause follows, filled with silence, with starlight, with wonder. Finally, Qrow stirs, answering groggily, “Make more than one wish.”

Now that Clover takes the time to consider it, there are many things he could wish for, however pointless it is to do so.

He could wish to take back the things he did - or rather, didn’t do. He could wish to no longer feel the tundra in his lung, to no longer shudder with the phantom gnaw of metal through flesh. He could wish longingly, desperately, endlessly that Atlas never fell, because then, he would still know something close to peace.

But in a way, there is still peace to be had.

It is a fragment, just a fragment, but it is peace nonetheless that he finds respite in.

It is a starry night sky and Qrow’s hair soft between his fingers. It is the warm bed that awaits them and the dreamless sleep he still hopes to have. It is the sunset that will come the next day, and the next, a sweet surrender to the night that will always lead into a tentative tomorrow.

Fleetingly, Clover allows himself to wish for the sky to remain bright and crystalline until he is ready to move onwards. He will wish for an everlasting night, a century of this fragment, an eternity of this breath of fresh air until he is finally ready to find the rest of it.


	29. love

Clover knows what this is.

He has known for a while, but he does not say it, only because he does not know how to.

He does not say it when he recognizes how Qrow’s small trinket collection starts to grow larger over time, some small, others distorted, all of them a varying few shades of green that match that of his pin. He does not say it, but he thinks it when Qrow holds them up to the light and marvels in a lustre like that of early springtime promises and late summer forestry. 

He does not say it the first time he is pulled into a slow dance in the middle of their living room, a steady sway against one another like languid ocean water. His apron is stained, forearms sticky and knuckles smeared with powdered sugar, but Qrow’s fingers still hook into his collar and tug him closer. He does not say it, but he thinks it when he feels Qrow’s smile against his lips.

He does not say it even in the most vulnerable moments. Not when Qrow slots perfectly against him, mouths promises against his skin, gasps out for things that Clover gladly gives; not when Qrow settles with him when he is quaking, heaving, and tethers him back to Remnant with a touch softer than silk and words smoother than velvet. He does not say it, but he thinks it when Qrow nuzzles close late at night, presses his lips to marks old and new, and listens for a heartbeat strong and whole beside his own.

He does not know how to say it, but every day, he thinks it.

Every day, he almost says it.

It is early one autumn morning that it happens. Sunlight bleeds through the leaves outside and ignites them golden, filtering in through the blinds and tinting their bedroom with the honeyed glow of the season. Qrow is already awake, still bleary-eyed and lethargic, his collar undone and his jacket unbuttoned. Even with the couple of weeks he spent to get himself used to waking up early for the upcoming school year, he is not and will never be a morning person like Clover is.

So it is Clover who finally catches him by the wrist and tugs him close. Qrow’s hands settle on his hips, grip gentle, fingers almost imperceptible where they tap idly against him. There are no complaints as the buttons are done one by one, slow, methodical; there is only a small smile on Qrow’s lips, growing just a bit wider as Clover fixes his collar.

He is tense, anxious, a thousand different things on his mind now that he is returning to the classroom, but that seems to melt away during these quiet moments. He leans in just that short distance for a kiss, languid and heady, his aftershave faint and cologne fleeting. Is it a simple gesture, a thanks and a goodbye, one that Clover has seen time and time again, and yet somehow, it feels different.

Qrow is the one to pull away, but he lingers for a moment longer with his forehead pressed to Clover’s. It is a quiet moment amongst many they have had and many to come. It is something so simple, something that seems like a given, but it occurs to Clover frequently that it is not. These are mornings he might have never seen. These are touches he might have never been granted. This is a man he might have never had. 

This is a life he almost did not have.

“I love you.”

The rhythm of Qrow’s fingers against his hips come to an abrupt stop. Clover’s pulse is hot in his throat, under his skin, searing fast in the wake of the words that spilled forth before he could stop them. Qrow pulls back just a bit, a stillness to him like that of glass, of lake water, of something fragile soon to break; he looks as if there is a confession of his own waiting to burst out of him, to fill the space between them and the silence around them, but it does not happen.

Qrow does not say it just yet, but he does not have to.

It is in the next kiss, firmer than before, not frantic but not languid either. It is in the hands that cling to Clover and refuse to let go, not until he absolutely has to. It is in the noise he makes, not a confession but not a plea, something distinctly vulnerable that melts between them.

It is in his eyes when he breaks away, panting and kissed bruised, as red as his lips and the tinge of his cheeks. His gaze lingers on Clover as if he is the starry night sky, the shattered moon and the glimmer of its echo-memory pieces, the whirling cosmos outside their window that spins just as fast as the thrum of Clover’s pulse.


	30. free day

It is not perfect.

Burdens have been alleviated and forgiveness has been granted, but that does not make this perfect. There is a long road ahead and an even longer string of aches left to soothe behind them, but that is okay. Clover does not expect perfect; he does not need perfect.

All he needs is time and understanding, both of which he has plenty of.

There is stability now when there never was before. There is a morning that will always come and a night that will always soothe the hardships of the day. There is healing now, pain that grows weaker with each passing month, and finally, Clover may rest.

Whatever comes next, he will handle.

Whatever happens later, he will gladly accept.

Qrow is by his side, and the wounds left gaping have finally begun to knit back together, and he knows that all will be well in due time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading ♡
> 
> come say hello to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ospreyxxx) ✨


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